CHAPTER XIX

CHAOS (1870)

ONE fine May afternoon in 1870 Adams drove again up St. James's
Street wondering more than ever at the marvels
of life. Nine years had passed since the historic entrance of May, 1861. Outwardly London was
the same. Outwardly
Europe showed no great change. Palmerston and Russell were for- gotten; but Disraeli and
Gladstone were still much alive. One's friends were more than ever prominent. John Bright was in
the Cabinet; W. E. Forster was about to enter it; reform ran riot. Never had the sun of progress
shone so fair. Evolution from lower to higher raged like an epidemic. Darwin was the greatest of
prophets in the most evolutionary of worlds. Gladstone had over-thrown the Irish Church; was
overthrowing the Irish landlords; was trying to pass an Education Act. Improvement, prosperity,
power, were leaping and bounding over every country road.
Even America, with her Erie scandals and Alabama Claims, hardly made a discordant note.

At the Legation, Motley ruled; the long Adams reign was forgotten; the rebellion had passed into
history. In society no one cared to recall the years before the Prince of Wales. The smart set had
come to their own. Half the houses that Adams had
frequented, from 1861 to 1865, were closed or closing in 1870. Death had ravaged one's circle of
friends. Mrs. Milnes Gaskell and her sister Miss Charlotte Wynn were both dead, and Mr. James
Milnes Gaskell was no longer in Parliament. That field of education seemed closed too.

One found one's self in a singular frame of mind--more eighteenth-century than ever--almost
rococo--and unable to catch anywhere the cog-wheels of evolution. Experience ceased to
educate. London taught less freely than of old. That one bad

CHAOS 285

style was leading to another--that the older men were more amusing than the younger--that Lord
Houghton's breakfast-table showed gaps hard to fill--that there were fewer men one wanted to
meet--these, and a hundred more such remarks, helped little towards a quicker and more
intelligent activity. For English reforms Adams cared nothing. The reforms were themselves
medieval. The Education Bill of his friend W. E. Forster seemed to him a guaranty against all
education he had use for. He re-sented change. He would have kept the Pope in the Vatican and
the Queen at Windsor Castle as historical monuments. He did not care to Americanize Europe.
The Bastille or the Ghetto was a curiosity worth a great deal of money, if preserved; and so was a
Bishop; so was Napoleon III. The tourist was the great conservative who hated novelty and
adored dirt. Adams came back to London without a thought of revolution or restlessness or
reform. He wanted amusement, quiet, and gaiety.

Had he not been born in 1838 under the shadow of Boston State House, and been brought up in
the Early Victorian epoch, he would have cast off his old skin, and made his court to
Marlborough House, in partnership with the American woman and the Jew
banker. Common-sense dictated it; but Adams and his friends were unfashionable by some law of
Anglo-Saxon custom--some innate atrophy of mind. Figuring himself as already a man of action,
and rather far up towards the front, he had no idea of making a new effort or catching up with a
new world. He saw nothing ahead of him. The world was never more calm. He wanted to
talk with Ministers about the Alabama Claims, because he looked on the Claims as his own special
creation, discussed between him and his father long before they had been discussed by
Government;
he wanted to make notes for his next year's articles; but he had not a thought that, within three
months, his world was to be upset, and he under it. Frank Palgrave came one day, more
contentious, contemptuous, and paradoxical than ever, because Napoleon III seemed to be
threatening war with Germany.

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Palgrave said that "Germany would beat France into scraps " if there was war. Adams thought
not. The chances were always against catastrophes. No one else expected great changes in
Europe. Palgrave was always extreme; his language was incautious--violent!

In this year of all years, Adams lost sight of education. Things began smoothly, and London
glowed with the pleasant sense of familiarity and dinners. He sniffed with voluptuous delight the
coal-smoke of Cheapside and revelled in the architecture of Oxford Street. May Fair never shone
so fair to Arthur Pendennis as it did to the returned American. The country never smiled its vel-
vet smile of trained and easy hostess as it did when he was so lucky as to be asked on a country
visit. He loved it all--everything--had always loved it! He felt almost attached to the Royal
Exchange. He thought he owned the St. James's Club. He patronized the Legation.

The first shock came lightly, as though Nature were playing tricks on her spoiled child, though
she had thus far not exerted herself to spoil him. Reeve refused the Gold Conspiracy. Adams had
become used to the idea that he was free of the Quarterlies, and that his writing would be printed
of course; but he was stunned by the reason of refusal. Reeve said it would bring half-a-dozen
libel suits on him. One knew that the power of Erie was almost as great in England as in America,
but one was hardly prepared to find it controlling the Quarterlies. The English press professed to
be shocked in 1870 by the Erie scandal, as it had professed in 1860 to be shocked by the scandal
of slavery, but when invited to support those who were trying to abate these scandals, the English
press said it was afraid. To Adams, Reeve's refusal seemed portentous. He and his brother and the
North American Review were running greater risks every day, and no one thought of fear
That a notorious story, taken bodily from an official document' should scare the Endinburgh
Review into silence for fear of Jay Gould and Jim Fisk, passed even Adams's experience of
English eccentricity, though it was large.

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He gladly set down Reeve's refusal of the Gold Conspiracy to respectability and editorial law, but
when he sent the manuscript on to the Quarterly, the editor of the Quarterly also
refused it. The literary standard of the two Quarterlies was not so high as to suggest that the
article was illiterate beyond the power of an active and willing editor to redeem it. Adams had no
choice but to realize that he had to deal in 1870 with the same old English character of 1860, and
the same inability in himself to understand it. As usual, when an ally was needed, the American
was driven into the arms of the radicals. Respectability, everywhere and always, turned its back
the moment one asked to do it a favor. Called suddenly away from England, he despatched the
article, at the last moment, to the Westminster Review and heard no more about it for
nearly six months.

He had been some weeks in London when he received a telegram from his brother-in-law at the
Bagni di Lucca telling him that his sister had been thrown from a cab and injured, and that he had
better come on. He started that night, and reached the Bagni di Lucca on the second day. Tetanus
had already set in.

The last lesson--the sum and term of education--began
then. He had passed through thirty years of rather varied experience without having once felt the
shell of custom broken. He had never seen Nature--only her surface--the sugar-coating that she
shows to youth. Flung suddenly in his face, with the harsh brutality of chance, the terror of the
blow stayed by him thenceforth for life, until repetition made it more than the will could struggle
with; more than he could call on himself to bear. He found his sister, a woman of forty, as gay and
brilliant in the terrors of lockjaw as she had been in the careless fun of 1859, lying in bed in
consequence of a miserable cab-accident that had bruised her foot. Hour by hour the muscles
grew rigid, while the mind remained bright, until after ten days of fiendish torture she died in
convulsion.

One had heard and read a great deal about death, and even seen

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a little of it, and knew by heart the thousand commonplaces of religion and poetry which seemed
to deaden one's senses and veil the horror. Society being immortal, could put on immortality at
will. Adams being mortal, felt only the mortality. Death took features altogether new to him, in
these rich and sensuous surroundings. Nature enjoyed it, played with it, the horror added to her
charm, she liked the torture, and smothered her victim with caresses. Never had one seen her so
winning. The hot
Italian summer brooded outside, over the market-place and the picturesque peasants, and, in the
singular color of the Tuscan atmosphere, the hills and vineyards of the Apennines seemed bursting
with mid-summer blood. The sick-room itself glowed with the Italian joy of life; friends filled it;
no harsh northern lights pierced the soft shadows; even the dying women shared the sense of the
Italian summer, the soft, velvet air, the humor, the courage, the sensual fulness of Nature and
man. She faced death, as women mostly do, bravely and even gaily, racked slowly to
unconsciousness, but yielding only to violence, as a soldier sabred in battle. For many thousands
of years, on these hills and plains, Nature had gone on sabring men and women with the same air
of sensual pleasure.

Impressions like these are not reasoned or catalogued in the mind; they are felt as part of violent
emotion; and the mind that feels them is a different one from that which reasons; it is thought of a
different power and a different person. The first serious consciousness of Nature's gesture--her
attitude towards life--took form then as a phantasm, a nightmare, an insanity of force. For the first
time, the stage-scenery of the senses collapsed; the human mind felt itself stripped naked,
vibrating in a void of shapeless energies, with resistless mass, colliding, crushing, wasting, and
destroying what these same energies had created and labored from eternity to perfect. Society
became fantastic, a vision of pantomime with a mechanical motion; and its so-called thought
merged in the mere sense of life, and pleasure in the sense. The usual

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anodynes of social medicine became evident artifice. Stoicism was perhaps the best; religion was
the most human; but the idea that any personal deity could find pleasure or profit in torturing a
poor woman, by accident, with a fiendish cruelty known to man only in perverted and insane
temperaments, could not be held for a moment. For pure blasphemy, it made pure atheism a
comfort. God might be, as the Church said, a Substance, but He could not be a Person.

With nerves strained for the first time beyond their power of tension, he slowly travelled
northwards with his friends, and stopped for a few days at Ouchy to recover his balance in a new
world; for the fantastic mystery of coincidences had made the world, which he thought real, mimic
and reproduce the distorted nightmare of his personal horror. He did not yet know it, and he was
twenty years in finding it out; but he had need of all the beauty of the Lake be- low and of the
Alps above, to restore the finite to its place. For the first time in his life, Mont Blanc for a moment
looked to him what It was--a chaos of anarchic and purposeless forces--and he needed days of
repose to see it clothe itself again with the illusions of his senses, the white purity of its snows, the
splendor of its light, and the infinity of its heavenly peace. Nature was kind; Lake Geneva was
beautiful beyond itself, and the Alps put on charms real as terrors; but man became chaotic, and
before the illusions of Nature were wholly restored, the illusions of Europe suddenly vanished,
leaving a new world to learn.

On July 4, all Europe had been in peace; on July 14, Europe was in full chaos of war. One felt
helpless and ignorant, but one might have been king or kaiser without feeling stronger to deal with
the chaos. Mr. Gladstone was as much astounded as Adams; the Emperor Napoleon was nearly as
stupefied as either, and Bismarck: himself hardly knew how he did it. As education, the out-
break of the war was wholly lost on a man dealing with death hand-to-hand, who could not throw
it aside to look at it across the Rhine. Only when he got up to Paris, he began to feel the approach

290 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

of catastrophe. Providence set up no affiches to announce the tragedy. Under one's eyes
France cut herself adrift, and floated off, on an unknown stream, towards a less known ocean.
Standing on the curb of the Boulevard, one could see as much as though
one stood by the side of the Emperor or in command of an army corps. The effect was lurid. The
public seemed to look on the war, as it had looked on the wars of Louis XIV and Francis I, as a
branch of decorative art. The French, like true artists, always regarded war as one of the fine arts.
Louis XIV practiced it; Napoleon I perfected it; and Napoleon III had till then pursued it in the
same spirit with singular success. In Paris, in July, 1870, the war was brought out like an opera of
Meyerbeer. One felt one's self a supernumerary hired to fill the scene. Every evening at the theatre
the comedy was interrupted by order, and one stood up by order, to join in singing the
Marseillaise to order. For nearly twenty years one had been forbidden to sing the
Marseillaise under any circumstances, but at last regiment after regiment marched through
the streets shouting "Marchons!" while the bystanders cared not enough to join. Patriotism
seemed to have been brought out of the Government stores, and distributed by grammes per
capita. One had seen one's own people dragged unwillingly into a war, and had watched one's
own regiments march to the front without sign of enthusiasm; on the contrary, most serious,
anxious, and conscious of the whole weight of the crisis; but in Paris every one conspired to
ignore the crisis, which every one felt at hand. Here was education for the million, but the lesson
was intricate. Superficially Napoleon and his Ministers and marshals were playing a game against
Thiers and Gambetta. A bystander knew almost as little as they did about the result. How could
Adams prophesy that in another year or two, when he spoke of his Paris and its tastes,
people would smile at his dotage?

As soon as he could, he fled to England and once more took refuge in the profound peace of
Wenlock Abbey. Only the few remaining monks, undisturbed by the brutalities of Henry VIII--

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three or four young Englishmen--survived there, with Milnes Gaskell acting as Prior. The August
sun was warm; the calm of the Abbey was ten times secular; not a discordant sound--hardly a
sound of any sort except the cawing of the ancient rookery at sunset--broke the stillness; and,
after the excitement of the last month, one felt a palpable haze of peace brooding over the Edge
and the Welsh Marches. Since the reign of Pterapsis, nothing had greatly changed; nothing
except the monks. Lying on the turf the ground littered with newspapers, the monks studied the
war correspondence. In one respect Adams had succeeded in educating himself; he had learned to
follow a campaign.

While at Wenlock, he received a letter from President Eliot inviting him to take an Assistant
Professorship of History, to be created shortly at Harvard College. After waiting ten or a dozen
years for some one to show consciousness of his existence, even a Terabratula would be
pleased and grateful for a compliment which implied that the new President of Harvard College
wanted his help; but Adams knew nothing about history, and much less about teaching, while he
knew more than enough about Harvard College; and wrote at once to thank President Eliot, with
much regret that the honor should be above his powers. His mind was full of other matters. The
summer, from which he had expected only amusement and social relations with new people, had
ended in the most intimate personal tragedy, and the most terrific politi- cal convulsion he had
ever known or was likely to know. He had failed in every object of his trip. The Quarterlies had
refused his best essay. He had made no acquaintances and hardly picked up the old ones. He
sailed from Liverpool, on September 1, to begin again where he had started two years before, but
with no longer a hope of attaching himself to a President or a party or a press. He was a free lance
and no other career stood in sight or mind. To that point education had brought him.

Yet he found, on reaching home, that he had not done quite so badly as he feared. His article on
the Session in the July North

292 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

American had made a success. Though he could not quite see what partisan object it served,
he heard with flattered astonishment that it had been reprinted by the Democratic National
Committee and circulated as a campaign document by the hundred thousand copies. He was
henceforth in opposition, do what he might; and a Massachusetts Democrat, say what he pleased;
while his only reward
or return for this partisan service consisted in being formally answered by Senator Timothy Howe,
of Wisconsin, in a Republican campaign document, presumed to be also freely circulated, in which
the Senator, besides refuting his opinions, did him the honor--most unusual and picturesque in a
Senator's rhetoric--of likening him to a begonia.

The begonia is, or then was, a plant of such senatorial qualities as to make the simile, in intention,
most flattering. Far from charming in its refinement, the begonia was remarkable for curious and
showy foliage; it was conspicuous; it seemed to have no useful purpose; and it insisted on
standing always in the most prominent positions. Adams would have greatly liked to be a begonia
in Washington, for this was rather his ideal of the successful statesman, and he thought about it
still more when the Westminster Review for October brought him his article on the Gold
Conspiracy, which was also instantly pirated on a great scale. Piratical he was himself henceforth
driven to be, and he asked only to be pirated, for he was sure not to be paid; but the honors of
piracy resemble the colors of the begonia; they are showy but not useful. Here was a tour de
force he had never dreamed himself equal to performing: two long, dry, quarterly, thirty or
forty page articles, appearing in quick succession, and pirated for audiences running well into the
hundred thousands; and not one person, man or woman, offering him so much as a
congratulation, except to call him a begonia.

Had this been all, life might have gone on very happily as before, but the ways of America to a
young person of literary and political tastes were such as the so-called evolution of civilized man
had not before evolved. No sooner had Adams made at Washington

CHAOS 293

what he modestly hoped was a sufficient success, than his whole family set on him to drag him
away. For the first time since 1861 his father interposed; his mother entreated; and his brother
Charles argued and urged that he should come to Harvard College. Charles had views of further
joint operations in a new field. He said that Henry had done at Washington all he could possibly
do; that his position there wanted solidity; that he was, after all, an adven- turer; that a few years
in Cambridge would give him personal weight; that his chief function was not to be that of
teacher, but that of editing the North American Review which was to be coupled with the
professorship, and would lead to the daily press. In short, that he needed the university more than
the university needed him.

Henry knew the university well enough to know that the de- partment of history was controlled
by one of the most astute and ideal administrators in the world--Professor Gurney--and that it was
Gurney who had established the new professorship, and had cast his net over Adams to carry the
double load of mediaeval history and the Review. He could see no relation whatever
between himself and a professorship. He sought education; he did not sell it. He knew no history;
he knew only a few historians; his ignorance was mischievous because it was literary, accidental,
indifferent. On the other hand he knew Gurney, and felt much influenced by his advice. One
cannot take one's self quite seriously in such matters; it could not much affect the sum of solar
energies whether one went on dancing with girls in Wash- ington, or began talking to boys at
Cambridge. The good people who thought it did matter had a sort of right to guide. One could
not reject their advice; still less disregard their wishes.

The sum of the matter was that Henry went out to Cambridge and had a few words with President
Eliot which seemed to him almost as American as the talk about diplomacy with his father ten
years before. "But, Mr. President," urged Adams, "I know nothing about Mediaeval History."
With the courteous manner

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and bland smile so familiar for the next generation of Americans Mr. Eliot mildly but firmly
replied, "If you will point out to me any one who knows more, Mr. Adams, I will appoint him."
The answer was neither logical nor convincing, but Adams could not meet it without overstepping
his privileges. He could not say that, under the circumstances, the appointment of any professor at
all seemed to him unnecessary.

So, at twenty-four hours' notice, he broke his life in halves again in order to begin a new
education, on lines he had not chosen, in subjects for which he cared less than nothing, in a place
he did
not love, and before a future which repelled. Thousands of men have to do the same thing, but his
case was peculiar because he had no need to do it. He did it because his best and wisest friends
urged it, and he never could make up his mind whether they were right or not. To him this kind of
education was always false. For himself he had no doubts. He thought it a mistake; but his opinion
did not prove that it was one, since, in all probability, whatever he did would be more or less a
mistake. He had reached cross-roads of education which all led astray. What he could gain at
Harvard College he did not know, but in any case it was nothing he wanted. What he lost at
Washington he could partly see, but in any case it was not fortune. Grant's administration wrecked
men by thousands, but profited few. Perhaps Mr. Fish was the solitary exception. One might
search the whole list of Congress, Judiciary, and Executive during the twenty-five years 1870 to
1895, and find little but damaged reputation. The period was poor in purpose and barren in
results.

Henry Adams, if not the rose, lived as near it as any politician, and knew, more or less, all the men
in any way prominent at Washington, or knew all about them. Among them, in his opinion, the
best equipped, the most active-minded, and most industrious was Abram Hewitt, who sat in
Congress for a dozen years, between 1874 and 1186, sometimes leading the House and always
wielding influence second to none. With nobody did Adams

CHAOS 295

form closer or longer relations than with Mr. Hewitt, whom he regarded as the most useful public
man in Washington; and he was the more struck by Hewitt's saying, at the end of his laborious
career as legislator, that he left behind him no permanent result ex- cept the Act consolidating the
Surveys. Adams knew no other man who had done so much, unless Mr. Sherman's legislation is
accepted as an instance of success. Hewitt's nearest rival would probably have been Senator
Pendleton who stood father to civil service reform in 1882, an attempt to correct a vice that
should never have been allowed to be born. These were the men who succeeded.

The press stood in much the same light. No editor, no political writer, and no public administrator
achieved enough good reputation to preserve his memory for twenty years. A number of them
achieved bad reputations, or damaged good ones that had been gained in the Civil War. On the
whole, even for Senators, diplomats, and Cabinet officers, the period was wearisome and stale.

None of Adams's generation profited by public activity unless it were William C. Whitney, and
even he could not be induced to return to it. Such ambitions as these were out of one's reach, but
supposing one tried for what was feasible, attached one's self closely to the Garfields, Arthurs,
Frelinghuysens, Blaines, Bayards, or Whitneys, who happened to hold office; and supposing one
asked for the mission to Belgium or Portugal, and obtained it; supposing one served a term as
Assistant Secretary or Chief of Bureau; or, finally, supposing one had gone as sub-editor on the
New York Tribune or Times--how much more education would one have gained
than by going to Harvard College? These questions
seemed better worth an answer than most of the questions on examination papers at college or in
the civil service; all the more because one never found an answer to them, then or afterwards, and
because, to his mind, the value of American society altogether was mixed up with the value of
Washington.

At first, the simple beginner, struggling with principles, wanted throw off responsibility on the
American people, whose bare

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and toiling shoulders had to carry the load of every social or political stupidity; but the American
people had no more to do with it than with the customs of Peking. American character might
perhaps account for it, but what accounted for American character? All Boston, all New England,
and all respectable New York, including Charles Francis Adams the father and Charles Francis
Adams the son, agreed that Washington was no place for a respectable young man. All
Washington, including Presidents, Cabinet officers, Judiciary, Senators, Congressmen, and clerks,
expressed the same opinion, and conspired to drive away every young man who happened to be
there or tried to approach. Not one young man of promise remained in the Government service.
All drifted into opposition. The Government did not want them in Washington. Adams's case was
perhaps the strongest because he thought he had done well. He was forced to guess it, since he
knew no one who would have risked so extravagant a step as that of encouraging a young man in
a literary career, or even in a political one; society forbade it, as well as residence in a political
capital; but Harvard College must have seen some hope for him, since it made him professor
against his will; even the publishers and editors of the North American Review must have
felt a certain amount of confidence in him, since they put the Review in his hands. After
all, the Review was the first literary power in America, even though it paid almost as little
in gold as the United States Treasury. The degree of Harvard College might bear a value as
ephemeral as the commission of a President of the United States; but the government of the
college, measured by money alone, and patronage, was a matter of more importance than that of
some branches of the national service. In social position, the college was the superior of them all
put together. In knowledge, she could assert no superiority, since the Government made no
claims, and prided itself on ignorance. The service of Harvard College was distinctly honorable;
perhaps the most honorable in America and if Harvard College thought Henry Adams worth
employing at

297 CHAOS

four dollars a day, why should Washington decline his services when he asked nothing? Why
should he be dragged from a career he liked in a place he loved, into a career he detested, in a
place and climate he shunned? Was it enough to satisfy him, that all America should call
Washington barren and dangerous? What
made Washington more dangerous than New York?

The American character showed singular limitations which some- times drove the student of
civilized man to despair. Crushed by his own ignorance--lost in the darkness of his own gropings--
the scholar finds himself jostled of a sudden by a crowd of men who seem to him ignorant that
there is a thing called ignorance; who have forgotten how to amuse themselves; who cannot even
understand that they are bored. The American thought of himself as a restless, pushing, energetic,
ingenious person, always awake and trying to get ahead of his neighbors. Perhaps this idea of the
national character might be correct for New York or Chicago; it was not correct for Washington.
There the American showed himself, four times in five, as a quiet, peaceful, shy figure, rather in
the mould of Abraham Lincoln, somewhat sad, sometimes pathetic,
once tragic; or like Grant, inarticulate, uncertain, distrustful of himself, still more distrustful of
others, and awed by money. That the American, by temperament, worked to excess, was true;
work and whiskey were his stimulants; work was a form of vice; but he never cared much for
money or power after he earned them. The amusement of the pursuit was all the amusement he
got from it; he had no use for wealth. Jim Fisk alone seemed to know what he wanted; Jay Gould
never did. At Washington one met mostly such true Americans, but if one wanted to know them
better, one went to study them in Europe. Bored, patient, helpless; pathetically dependent on his
wife and daughters; indulgent to excess; mostly a modest, decent, excellent, valuable citizen; the
American was to be met at every railway station in Europe, carefully ex- plaining to every listener
that the happiest day of his life would be the day he should land on the pier at New York. He was
ashamed

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to be amused; his mind no longer answered to the stimulus of variety; he could not face a new
thought. All his immense strength his intense nervous energy, his keen analytic perceptions, were
oriented in one direction, and he could not change it. Congress was full of such men; in the
Senate, Sumner was almost the only exception; in the Executive, Grant and Boutwell were
varieties of the type--political specimens--pathetic in their helplessness to do anything with power
when it came to them. They knew not
how to amuse themselves; they could not conceive how other people were amused. Work,
whiskey, and cards were life. The at- mosphere of political Washington was theirs--or was
supposed by the outside world to be in their control--and this was the reason why the outside
world judged that Washington was fatal even for a young man of thirty-two, who had passed
through the whole variety of temptations, in every capital of Europe, for a dozen years; who never
played cards, and who loathed whiskey.